


Anchor Pricing

by StarvingForAttention



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Coercion, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mind Games, but idk if that's saying much, this has slightly less horror/creepiness than what i usually write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22221397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarvingForAttention/pseuds/StarvingForAttention
Summary: Sometimes, when you're about to starve, you end up agreeing to bargains you would never entertain otherwise.That doesn't mean you must agree to all of them.
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 81





	Anchor Pricing

**Author's Note:**

> This fic owes its existence to [Scraps of Flesh](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21505228) by andynebulae. Go read that for a cool and unique take on Maxwell (and for a much more pleasant breed of maxwil than what I write lmao).

"Say, pal. You look like you could use some help."

Wilson met Maxwell's smirk head on, not bothering to hide the hatred in his eyes. What was the worst that could happen if Maxwell decided he had had enough of his sass and disappeared in the same puff of smoke he had arrived in? Death, he supposed. Death was... really, really awful, and only seemed to grow worse with experience. And death by starvation was worse than most. 

Still, sometimes you had to stick to a principle, no matter the cost. On the other hand, his principles didn't prevent him from speaking up. "What do you want?"

"To strike a bargain with you," said Maxwell with feigned cheer, as though he hadn't uttered those exact words dozens of times already.

Wilson seethed. The deck had always been stacked against him, but the current world he was moored in was easily the worst so far. It was tiny, for starters, so tiny he could trek across the entire island in a single day. Apart from a few shrivelled twigs and trees, nothing grew from the barren earth, not even flowers. It took great ingenuity and legwork chasing after tumbleweeds just to keep the fire lit each night. Food and shelter were little more than mad dreams.

Or rather, they were something that could only be earned through an endless string of deals with the devil.

"There is a word for this," Wilson declared with folded arms. He doubted Maxwell would retaliate with anything worse than a slightly upped price. "Extortion."

"Extortion involves threats. All I'm offering you is a service. You're free to take to your business elsewhere whenever you please." With a flourish, Maxwell procured a wicker basket seemingly out of this air. Its exact contents were partially obscured by a chequered cloth, but Wilson spotted several tasty vegetables peeking over its edges. "If you don't want these, I'll simply get rid of them."

"Wait," Wilson said at once, hating himself for his alacrity. 

"Are you sure, pal? Sure you're not pleased with what you already have? I wouldn't dream of forcing you to do anything."

Wilson quirked an eyebrow at the tumbleweed floating across their barren surroundings and snagging against the edge of the sheer cliff to the ocean, then pulled himself together.

He had to stay pragmatic. Maxwell's demands for payment were always easy enough: small humiliating acts that burned at Wilson's pride, but always over with before they could truly wound it. Sometimes they weren't even that, like when Maxwell had abruptly asked him to name the first song he could remember from his childhood (Hot Cross Buns, as it happened), or if there had been many mulberry trees where he had grown up (there hadn't). 

That didn't mean he had to like it. "Maybe you were a robber baron in a past life."

"Hardly. I was something quite different." Maxwell leaned in closer. "How about this, pal? I will give you this basket if you answer some questions for me."

Wilson sighed. "How many?"

"Three is the magical number."

They couldn't break his bones, whatever they were. "Deal."

"First question. What was the last thing you invented before your most recent death?"

Wilson shot the man a questioning glance. _Don't you already know that?_

"Just answer the question."

"It was gunpowder." Easy to remember something that had directly caused his rather explosive death.

"Second question. Do you think you were any good as a scientist before my intervention?"

"I..." Wilson licked his lips. "I think I showed promise."

"Third question. Why were you living all alone in your little cabin?"

Wilson's stomach tightened. "Because I wanted to."

"Well." Slowly, Maxwell's smirk returned. "I suppose I never specified you were meant to answer truthfully."

Wilson flushed. _It_ is _the truth, you creep!_ But why labour the point? Who cared what Maxwell thought?

From the way Wilson's heart kept pounding, he did.

"Very well. I believe you have earned your keep for the day."

Wilson reached eagerly for the basket only for Maxwell to pull it out of his reach. Wilson's stomach growled in protest. He was all too familiar with these kinds of games, but time and time again, they felt like a slap to the face. So much so he was surprised he still had any skin left on his metaphorical cheeks.

Maxwell's smile was as warm and inviting as a blizzard. "What if I told you I have six more laden baskets just waiting for you?"

Wilson scoffed. "I'd ask what the catch is."

"It's simple enough. I'm a busy man, and I grow weary of visiting you day in and day out. Therefore, I propose to give you your weekly tasks and the rewards that go with them all at once. What do you say, pal? You can earn a week's worth of food in half an hour's time."

Yeah, right. Maxwell had never shown any signs of tiring when it came to toying with Wilson, and if there was no catch, Wilson was the emperor of the moon. Still, a week without Maxwell's condescension was worth nearly as much as the grub. "Very well." He hesitated. "But I reserve the right to stop at any moment."

Maxwell rolled his eyes. "Very well. You retain the right to starve." He tilted his head, like a cat deciding just where to start toying with a caught mouse. "Bow to me."

The back of Wilson's neck must have been lobster red, but sadly, there was nothing new to this particular request. He bent his back till he saw nothing of Maxwell but his shoes and shins.

"Get on your knees and beg for me."

Again, same old. Wilson gritted his teeth and did as he was bid. "Please, Maxwell. May I have some food?"

Maxwell took an infuriatingly long break before answering. "Hmm. Acceptable."

Wilson got back up at once, doing his best not to feel like a puppet.

"Strip."

Wilson glanced nervously at the not-quite-twilight. "It's cold."

"Just your waistcoat will do."

Sighing, Wilson unbuttoned the waistcoat and shrugged it off, leaving it in a heap behind him.

"You could have at least folded it." Was it just Wilson's imagination, or did Maxwell sound genuinely nettled?

Wilson shrugged. "Make that your next order, then."

"I think not. I had something else in mind." Maxwell considered Wilson in silence before continuing. "Kiss me."

Wilson walked over, rose to his tiptoes, and planted a kiss on Maxwell's cheek.

Surely there had to be a limit to how much smugness could be contained in one smirk. "That is not what I meant."

"Ugh." Wilson shuddered, but ultimately mastered his revulsion and steadied himself against Maxwell's arms. In the long run, the momentary discomfort was a small price to pay.

Kissing Maxwell felt strange. Not bad, exactly, just sort of... wet. And warm. And soft: Maxwell's mouth was almost obscenely tender against Wilson's chapped lips. Wilson tried to ignore all that and focus on the act itself. How long had it been since he had last kissed anyone? Well over a decade, even before taking the Constant into account. Good grief. And even back then, Wilson had never really gotten the hang of it.

Maxwell didn't air any complaints, however. When Wilson decided the kiss had gone on for long enough and withdrew, he allowed him to do so with little more than an absent-minded nod of acknowledgement. Grateful, Wilson backed away, rubbing his arms to ward off the chill, waiting for Maxwell to attend and give him his penultimate order.

It didn't take long. "Dance for me."

"You're joking, right?" Wilson wouldn't have known a rhythm if it had held him upside down by the ankle and told him all about the human bone structure.

"Do I look like I said that in jest?"

Frankly, he did, but that didn't mean much. Wilson bit his lip as he pondered exactly how he was supposed to make his body move.

He tried. He raised his hands above his head and twisted his torso this way and that. He rose onto his tiptoes and did his best to mimic ballet dancers, or at least what he thought ballet dancers did. 

All the while Maxwell's eyes were on him, his eyes narrowing to slits, but never actually speaking up and telling him to stop.

Vexed, Wilson made another wild twist. His foot snagged against the discarded waistcoat, and he stumbled, fighting to retain his balance.

"That's enough."

Wilson straightened his back and caught his breath. It shouldn't have been much of an exertion, but he still felt like he had been running for minutes straight.

"That's six days' worth of food you've earned so far." For the first time since he had emerged, Maxwell moved. He sauntered over to the still panting Wilson and placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing through the thin fabric of his shirt.

"And..." Wilson gulped for air, trying to ignore the spider-like touch. "And the seventh?"

"It's very simple." Maxwell bent his knees and leaned over till his mouth was by Wilson's ear, cupping his other hand around it. Wilson frowned, but kept still, straining to hear Maxwell's faint whisper.

The stillness only lasted till the whispers took shape. It was, as Maxwell had said, a very simple request. Three words in total.

Three words that, once their real meaning sank in, were like being stabbed by an icicle.

_"No!"_

The very next moment, he was shoving Maxwell away, not thinking about how stupid it was, how downright suicidal, only certain that he wanted him away from him that very instant.

"Don't you dare!" he hissed, backing away and assuming a boxer's stance even though he hadn't set foot in a ring during his entire lifetime. "Me... with you? In a place like this? I'd rather die!"

He saw Maxwell's lips moving, but couldn't make out the words from the blood rushing in his ears. It wasn't even that it was a man making the request. It wasn't even that it was Maxwell, specifically. It was the request itself, the frank suggestion for something Wilson had never... had never really wanted...

Maxwell's smile never faded, exactly, but there was a certain dimming of his gaze. It returned at full force the very next moment. "I didn't think it would be such a big deal, pal. I will request something else."

Wilson made sure not show his relief, tainted by shame. Maxwell hadn't meant it, really. Of course he hadn't. It had all been to get a rise out of Wilson. And he had risen to the bait like a fool.

While Wilson had been busy beating himself up for his naivety, Maxwell had closed the distance between them. He positioned himself directly before Wilson and spread his arms to the side.

"I want you to kill me."

Wilson blinked, twice. "What?"

"I said I want you to kill me."

A strange sound that was eerily close to mad laughter threatened to escape Wilson's throat. He smothered it. "With my bare hands?"

"I didn't expect you to be so picky about it." An audible sharpness echoed through the air. When Wilson next looked, there was a scimitar at his feet, its blade, looking exclusively comprised of shadows, half buried in the dry dust. "There."

Awed into compliance, Wilson picked up the blade. The black hilt seemed to grip him as much as he gripped it. The stark sensation of cool shadowy tendrils creeping up his arm made him jolt, but when he looked down, he saw nothing amiss.

He did, however, at once feel his mind begin to unravel.

"Go on." Maxwell stretched his arms even further. "Give me your best shot."

 _It's a trap. It's a trap!_ But Wilson was already charging ahead, fuelled by a previously directionless rage, his sheer frustration over his miserable circumstances, the despair that was slowly and steadily creeping in like an obnoxious tide and was by then threatening to soak his feet...

In retrospect, he wondered exactly what it was that he had screamed as he jabbed the weapon up and forward. Perhaps it hadn't been words. Just a garbled exclamation of wrath.

The blade sank into Maxwell's chest like it already had a ready-made slot in it. No blood spurted out, not even after Wilson withdrew the blade, wild with success and terror at his bloodlust alike. What spilled instead was ink, a thick syrupy blackness that coated Maxwell's front within seconds and fell to the ground in splatters. Steaming, acidic splatters that sank straight through the dust and beyond it with a sharp hiss.

Maxwell looked down at the ruin of his chest. Then, he sought Wilson's eyes.

He smiled.

The blade fell like a feather, slicing the air in half before clattering unceremoniously to the ground. Wilson stumbled backwards, eyes widening as Maxwell's body twisted and distorted like clay figure being manhandled by an invisible giant, then finally collapsed into a pile of fancy clothes and pungent, tar-like goo, without so much as a suggestion of a human within.

Wilson stared at the mess that had been Maxwell. Soon, there was nothing left but the hiss of the liquid as it ate at the sand, and the vague stench of rotten eggs.

The sword remained. He shied clear of it. He wasn't one to call any tool good or evil, but... no beating around the bush: this blade really _was_ evil.

He really might starve now, he thought dully as he slouched towards camp, after making sure the acid had stopped spreading and remained an inanimate puddle of... whatever it was. Nightmare fuel? The texture looked similar. Maybe he should have taken a sample...

The thought faded from his mind as he saw his sorry excuse of a camp. Six wicker baskets awaited him, forming a neat semi-circle around his firepit.

There was a note attached to the one on the far left. Wilson only noticed his hand was trembling once he tore it off the handle. The message was simple, written in beautiful calligraphy in ink as black as night.

_Nice try._

He ate sparingly despite being sorely tempted by the available banquet. The food would, without a doubt, have to last for a week.

Already, his mind was turning. With so many baskets at hand at once, he just might have enough raw material at hand to build a raft and take to the seas. It was a gamble, of course, but that was equally true of staying. If he died at sea, it would at least be on his own terms.

At the very bottom of the first basket, he found a single apple, deep crimson and a size that fit snugly in his hand. He stared at it.

And felt eyes grinning at him from the darkness.


End file.
